


My Bow Shall Sing With Your Sword

by dollylux



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Identity Reveal, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 13:52:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking Thranduil's advice, Legolas sets out to find the man known as Strider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Bow Shall Sing With Your Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duende09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duende09/gifts).



> For Stephanie, for her birthday. It is a day late, but I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> This is the first time I have ever published something I have written of this pairing. They are truly my OTP in Tolkien's verse, and I have loved them for nearly 15 years. It is very emotional for me to have written them, from start to finish, and to share this with the world. I am terrified and excited. I love them so, so much. <3
> 
> Note: Aragorn's age by the books would make this timeline impossible, as he would have been ten. So, I am going with the timeline that the movie has given us and made him older (I see him as in his mid-twenties). My headcanon for this fic: he has been to Rohan and Gondor but has not yet fought in the great battles with either of them.

Upon departing from his father with a trembling, extended hand, Legolas does indeed return to the kingdom in which he was raised, but only long enough to gather supplies for his journey ahead. And therefore, with a light pack on his back, a fresh quiver loaded with arrows, and his bow over his shoulder, Legolas Greenleaf sets out from the Woodland Realm in search of a ghost.

A ghost this Strider is to him, for he is a name only, not a face or a story attached that would give Legolas any hope that such a man does truly exist. _Find the Dúnedain_ , his father had told him. _Go North._

He spends many lonely days and nights first on the road through Mirkwood along the Forest River, and then following the long, mighty line of the Anduin south along the daunting peaks of the Misty Mountains. Winter has a firm hold on the world even still, the hard-earned days in the month past doing nothing to dissuade the frozen earth, the bitter winds that bend the shoulders of Legolas, the snow that falls on his hooded head as he sleeps.

He will not let himself think of Tauriel too much, will not let the guilt of departing from her during her grief take over his mind, or else duty would make him turn back on his nimble heel and go straight to his father’s kingdom and offer whatever comfort he could to his heartbroken friend. For friend is what she must remain to him.

On the third and thirtieth day since Legolas took his leave of his father on Ravenhill, he finds himself at the foothills of the Misty Mountains that he had crossed with no great ease. It is a bright, cheerful morning with birdsong echoing through the bare, snow-dropped trees. He takes a single step into the frozen grass and finds himself surrounded at once by his kin: nine elves with long, dark hair and starlight in their eyes facing him down with their hands on undrawn weapons, no trace of fear on their wise faces.

“My heart sings to see thee,” Legolas says in their shared tongue, his weary right hand lifted to touch his breast as he bows his head. “I am Legolas of the Woodland Realm, son of Thranduil. I seek nothing more than passage through your fair land.”

Wonder replaces the stern looks on the faces of the elves, and they come to Legolas at once, their heads bowed low.

“That may be all you seek,” says one, the seeming captain of the small band, “but you will also be given rest and nourishment and the company of your kindred, if you will have it!”

“I will have it, and gladly,” Legolas replies, relief settling into his shoulders and spreading all through his lithe body, making him all too aware of his own exhaustion, of his loneliness. “And I shall follow where you will lead me.”

 

And so Legolas finds himself staying nearly eight days at Imladris in the company of his kin, the great Lord Elrond not the least of them. Legolas spends many an hour recounting to Elrond all he knows of the Battle of the Five Armies, of the fates of all whose names he can remember. Elrond listens with a rapt, grave face that smoothes out in the end as he thanks Legolas for his information and his patience.

He rests far more than he would like, takes wonderful meals with laughing, singing, dark-haired elves whose company Legolas would be glad to have for a hundred years. But a name calls him, the riddle of a face he must put with the it, and a mystery further yet of the true name underneath it all.

He prepares to leave one evening, and his room is visited by Elrond himself after moonset. 

“May I ask,” Elrond starts, long hands gathering his great robes at his sides so that he may walk into the room of Legolas unhindered, “where it is you are going, or what it is you are seeking?”

“I know not,” Legolas says after a long moment, his pack in his hands, worn soft by the journeys it has seen. “This is the first journey I have taken that is not an errand for my father, though my father did guide me in this task.”

“And what is your task?” Elrond stands before him now, tall and wise, his skin bright in the moonlight from the open window, his grey eyes ageless and kind. Legolas wonders what it would be like to be fathered by one such as this, one whose warmth is readily available even to a stranger.

“I seek the Dúnedain of the North. There is one among them called Strider I am advised to find. Though for what purpose, I do not know.”

“Strider,” Elrond says softly, his face smoothing out as a smile tugs at his mouth. “Your father sent you to find the one called Strider?”

“Son of Arathorn, or so my father tells me. He says I must discover his true name for myself. I do not know what I may do for this man, except perhaps to aid him in his adventures in some way. My heart is wayward as of late, and I am glad to have an errand, though I know not to what end.”

“Last I heard, the men of the Dúnedain were north of the land known as the Shire, guarding those borders by the order of Mithrandir. You may find them south of Weather Hills, near the watchtower of Amon Sûl.” It seems there is more Elrond might say, more words that he keeps just on the tip of his tongue, but there they remain. His face is kinder as he reaches out to rest a hand on the shoulder of Legolas, a rare point of contact among the Elves. “Farewell, son of Thranduil. May you find what you seek.”

“Farewell,” Legolas whispers, his eyes lowered to hide any emotion that may be in them. The hand leaves him, and he finds himself alone again, the cold winter moon full and bright outside his window.

He departs at dawn.

 

His path takes him unwittingly on the reverse of the journey Bilbo, Gandalf, and their dwarven companions set out on nearly one year past, along the Great East Road, south of Trollshaw. On the twelfth day out of Rivendell, he spies a great, ruined tower in the distance, silhouetted in the early dusk of winter by the mountains behind it. He makes a cheerless camp under a small copse of trees after the sun has set and the moon has risen, his last night alone, though he knows it not.

He is nearly upon the tower as the sun sinks low the following day, and he knows now that he stands before Amon Sûl, the great watchtower built in the days of Elendil by the men of the Dúnedain, home of the most powerful of the _Palantíri_ in the possession of the old kingdom of Arnor. And now here it stands, sagging and ruin-soft yet still proud at the highest point of the Weather Hills, a relentless reminder to all who look upon it that this was once the land of a great and powerful kingdom.

Legolas feels exposed in the open expanse of the land around the tower, and even here in the days after a hard-earned victory, such exposure makes him uneasy. The wind bites harder here at the foothills of these ancient mountains, and not even the night songs of the birds join him as he settles in a nook beneath the summit of the watchtower.

And perhaps it is because of this quiet that he hears their approach.

There is not a sound of footfall, the group of Men almost elven in their moving silence. But it is their voices, speaking together in some lilting cadence that Legolas has not heard in all of his travels. His heart races in the trap of his chest, all of his hearing trained on them so as not to miss a single sound. He knows that he has happened upon the last of the near-extinct line of Númenor.

They halt yards away from him, at the other end of the great round base of Weathertop. He even breathes softly so as not to give himself away while they make their camp, dark shapes venturing out into the open to gather wood for a fire.

Soon the night air is filled with the smell of cooking meat, and the conversation is light with laughter and jest, the whole of it making Legolas ache to join them, to be a part of this merry troupe and enjoy their company for awhile. And it is this loneliness that makes him rise and walk with deliberate, audible footfall toward the camp, alerting them to his presence long before he actually sees them.

There are five men around the fire, but all are on their feet when Legolas appears before them, hands on the hilts of their swords, all except one. The man nearest him has his sword drawn, the firelight and starlight making it glint and flash in the dark.

“Halt! Who draws near? Speak quickly!” It is a gruff voice, one that is made for giving orders and having them followed without debate. Legolas finds himself hesitant in the face of it. He lifts his long, pale hands and presents their emptiness to the group, taking a step closer to remove himself from the shroud of darkness, to be lit by the fire and revealed to them.

“‘Tis only I, an Elf of the Woodland Realm. I come in peace.” 

And perhaps it is the appearance of him: his fair elven face, his long, ageless body, and the gentle manner with which he speaks that calms them, makes their hands fall from their swords and their faces turn toward their leader, the man with the sword still raised, backlit by the fire and nothing more than a daunting shadow to Legolas. At last the man sighs, sheathing his sword and stepping forward.

“And why is an Elf of the Woodland Realm journeying alone so far from home?” The man’s voice is softer now, possessing a poetic sweetness reminiscent of the Elves but one also wearied by a hard life, by nights spent sleeping out of doors and battles hard-fought and hard-won. His face is still covered by darkness, and he stands nearly as tall as Legolas himself, his hair unclean and shaggy about his shoulders and along the sides of his tired, shadowed face. Legolas holds his gaze though he cannot clearly see his eyes.

“I have travelled from Erebor where I fought with my people in the battle for the mountain. I journey abroad at the guidance of my father, King Thranduil.”

“King Thranduil?” The man takes a step back at that, struck quiet for a moment, but he is more reverent when he speaks again. “Then you must be Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood.”

“Hardly a prince,” Legolas says, though softly and mostly to himself. “I am Legolas, and I have sought one called Strider for nearly two moons.”

The man is quiet again, his company having settled back in behind him, eating and talking low amongst themselves while their captain speaks with the newcomer. Legolas can feel their curious eyes on him.

“Strider,” the man murmurs. “A prince of Elves seeks a lowly Ranger in the wilds of the North. And for what reason, my lord, if I may ask?”

“A Ranger is not so lowly, neither in lineage or in deed. I know of the Dúnedain, _astalder_. I know not why I seek Strider, only that my father advised me to do so.”

A queer smile appears on the shadows of the man’s face, and he lowers his head in an acquiescence as he lifts a hand, guiding Legolas toward the fire and the company.

“Then we would be honored if you joined us, Prince Legolas. Strider has not yet arrived from the errand that took him from us nearly two days past, but you shall meet him soon enough.”

“Please, call me only Legolas, I beg you. Outside of my realm, I am but an elf who sleeps under the stars, wandering and aimless until I happened upon you this very night.”

“Then wander aimless no more, and sleep under the stars not alone, if you will have our company.” The man folds his long legs up and settles against the base of the watchtower, leaving space next to him for Legolas to join him. 

Legolas tucks his pack at his side and looks out at the circle of grave, tall men wrapped in grey cloaks surrounding him, realizing perhaps for the first time since he set out from his father’s kingdom just how far from home he truly is.

“Here is Halbarad, perhaps the most courageous of all the Rangers of the North, and by him is Brunfair, Golodir, and lastly Arastil there next to you. Men, this is Legolas, son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. He shall join us for as long as he wishes.” The man hands Legolas a plate with crackling-hot meat, a small apple, and a piece of crusty bread on it. Legolas nods his thanks and places it in his lap, looking out at the men with what is almost a shy smile. He looks finally at their leader, the man who has spoken for him to the group, the one who is watching him now, the one whose face Legolas can now see clearly in the light of the fire.

He is handsome, undoubtedly so, his face young and without many lines but stern still with some nameless weight that has been upon him perhaps all of his life. His mouth is soft, not smiling but not frowning, his eyes a blue-grey that reminds Legolas of the sea of which he has only known in song. He is searching the face of Legolas in a very similar manner, as if he is cataloguing each feature, perhaps writing a quick verse about each one, and all of those lines will come together in a song that the man may sing to him after all the rest of his company has gone to bed.

Legolas smiles, quiet and truly shy now, his eyes lowered to the plate in his lap.

“And you, sir,” he says softly, “what is your name?”

“You may call me Thorongil. And if you have any need during your stay with us, I will have you tell me, and I shall do my best to see you have it. Now, please eat, while the meat is still hot and the bread unmolded.” 

 

The men make their beds for the night shortly after the meal, and they settle in with only a few words between them. Only Thorongil and Legolas are left, tucked close to the fire from the wind that rushes in icy cold blasts from either side of the mountains. Thorongil tends to the fire, seeming content in the quiet between them and not in a hurry to speak unless Legolas wishes them to do so. It eases some of the lingering anxiety in him, makes him relax next to the Ranger, tugging his legs up as he rests back against the cold rock, his arms about them as he stares down at the fire.

“What is it you do this far north? What sorts of threats do you encounter here?”

The man shrugs as he pokes at the fire with a long stick, his shoulders drawn in and not so lordly now that the other men have gone to bed.

“All manner of things, in truth. Though I do not spend all of my time here. I journey all over, even as far north and east as your strange wood, my lord.”

“You have been to Mirkwood?” Legolas turns his eyes to the man now, staring at him in surprise. 

“I have,” says he, smiling when he meets the gaze of Legolas. “I have met your father, a proud, grave king, he is. I have protected your southern borders in years past, when the threat of spiders began.”

“Foul creatures,” Legolas frowns, arms tightening around his long legs. “Most of my time of late has been spent doing just that. I was the Captain of the Guard of our borders.”

“Surely your kingdom needs you after the battle so recently fought and won? Why have you journeyed so far, when there is so much to be done at home?” 

“Times have been difficult, not only for the world but for myself, in the quiet of my mind and my heart.” Legolas pauses, his throat tight around the confessions he so badly wants to make, wants to let loose to someone. He glances at the Ranger once more to find him mirroring the manner with which Legolas is sitting, to find those sea-grey eyes on him. He feels compelled to lay his heart bare before this already wise young man.

“Against my better judgement and reason, I found myself taken with someone, one of my Guard. Tauriel is her name. She was as courageous and fierce as any male among us, and she proved herself time and time again to be worthy of respect. She fought bravely in the battle for the mountain at my side.”

“Was she killed?” Thorongil is hushed, speaking softly now, keeping these words between just the two of them and not a soul more.

“Nay,” Legolas whispers, “she lives. But her heart belongs to another.”

“I see.” Thorongil takes a deep breath that seems to make the fire stir, and he lets it out in a long sigh. “And so you could not stay and see her love this other. It would have proven to be too much, even for one so strong of heart as you.”

“You understand me.” It is a powerful feeling, Legolas realizes, to be understood so completely and without effort. He turns to meet the man’s eyes, searching them and finding true empathy there, finding something as solid as the earth itself that Legolas can lean on, something that will not yield but will stay strong, hold him up for as long as he needs it. He realizes that his heart is racing in his chest, that his face feels warm with a heat that is not from the fire in front of him, but from within. 

The trees nearby rustle with the winter wind, and the ancient stone they’re leaning against murmurs a low song with the breeze, an icy song of love lost that makes the breath in Legolas catch, makes him long to be warmed all over, to be tucked in against something as steadfast and real as the strength he sees in Thorongil’s eyes.

“I must retire,” Legolas says softly, lowering his gaze and forcing the quickness of his heart to slow to a regular beat. “I have journeyed long to find your company.”

Thorongil stirs then, rousing himself and standing up, reaching out with a worn hand to help Legolas up.

“Come, my lord. We will make you a bed as fit for a prince as can be managed out here.”

The ranger makes up two beds beside each other, softening one with as many blankets as he can gather. This bed he gives to Legolas, and he kneels beside it and pulls several layers of it back.

“Lie down, Legolas. Sleep well, and let whatever worries you carry with you drift away for awhile and leave you in sweet dreams.”

Legolas stretches out against the nest of blankets, and he feels young once again when Thorongil tucks him in, making sure he is covered from toe to shoulder with heavy wool, that he is protected from the deep winter night by blanket and by fire. 

He rests his head against his pack and watches in silence as Thorongil returns to the fire, adding new wood to it and stoking it brighter and hotter while the other men sleep. He pulls a pipe from some inner pocket and fills it with leaf from a pouch before he lights it, filling the air with the scent of sweet herb. 

“Can you tell me of him,” Legolas says after a long expanse of quiet, of nothing but stray birdsong and the crackle of the fire and the wind through dead branches, “this Strider I seek?”

Thorongil draws on the pipe and exhales thick plumes of smoke into the night as he stares into the fire. He doesn’t stir for a long moment, and Legolas wonders if he hadn’t spoken loudly enough, but finally he answers. 

“He is merely a Ranger. No braver or more noble than any you met here on this night. He is perhaps not as fair to look upon as some, or as gentle-handed, but he protects where he can, and serves well those who need him.”

“My father spoke highly of him.” Legolas watches the man’s shoulders tense a bit, and he wonders at it. “And he does not give out such praise unless it is earned.”

“Did he now?” The tone is unreadable, and Legolas can see the frown pulling at Thorongil’s handsome face in the glow from the fire. “What did he say?”

“That his father Arathorn was a good man, and Strider may prove to be a great one.” They are words Legolas has heard in his mind over the many miles he has covered in lonely silence, with only the memory of the voices of others to keep him company. “And so it seems that perhaps there is more to your Strider than you think.”

“Only time will tell,” Thorongil says almost harshly, but he sighs after he speaks, his shoulders drooping. He turns his pipe over and taps its contents into the licking flames of the fire. “Forgive me, my lord. Your words are only repeated compliments of a wise king, and I should have taken them with more grace.”

The man rises then, making his way over to where Legolas lies alone, pushing back the single blanket of his own cot and sliding beneath it. He is very near to Legolas now, his breath sweet with herb, the scent of his body thick with sweat and the musk of a man and smoke from the fire he tended. Legolas stays very still and watches him settle in, breathing in deeply to memorize the smell of him, the strange, alluring man.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Legolas replies finally after the man goes still before him, his voice softer than ever. They are so close he can feel the warmth of the man’s breath on his cold face. They lie like lovers sharing a bed, in a room made romantic by a warm fire, under a canopy of stars. An owl coos nearby, the sound soft and furrowing and sweet. Their eyes hold in the darkness.

“It seems as if all the stars overhead have gathered in your eyes, my prince.” The words are as sweet as a song, and Legolas finds himself smiling, his eyes falling closed in the face of such bare praise. 

“‘Tis but a trick of the light,” he whispers in reply, and he swears on those same stars that he can feel the touch of a roughened but gentle hand on his smooth cheek, but when he opens his eyes, he only sees Thorongil tucked under his blanket, only his face exposed, his eyes unblinking and trained on the face of Legolas. The elf’s heart is racing again, fast and free beneath the covers. “There are no more stars in my eyes than the rest of my kin.”

“Then you do not see what I see. Perhaps it is for my sight alone, and I will keep it for myself.” Thorongil nestles down into his bed, his eyes drifting closed, dark lashes on tired skin. “Sleep, my lord. May your dreams be sweet once again now that you have found that which you sought.”

“I have not found him yet, it seems,” Legolas replies, his own eyes slipping shut, “but I am closer than ever.”

 

The men break their fast standing in a huddle just after dawn, the morning truly cold without the warmth of fire. Legolas eats a bite with them before he gathers his things. They set off without so much as a backward glance, and Legolas finds himself walking at the rear beside Thorongil, their shoulders touching every third step or so. 

“I trust you slept well, my lord.” The ranger’s voice is just as quiet as it had been the night before, his words kept from all but Legolas at his side. Legolas smiles, his face tipped down to watch their matched stride on the cold ground beneath their feet.

“I did,” he answers in equal softness, walking so near to Thorongil that their shoulders stay together, a sweet warmth in the cold morning. “Where is your company off to on this frozen day?”

“My company, of which you now belong, my lord, is headed to the village of Bree. We seek word of the war and the Halfling of whom you briefly spoke last night. We are to ensure that he and Mithrandir return safely to the borders of the Shire.”

“Are you expecting to reunite with Strider in this village? Am I to finally meet him?”

“Aye,” Thorongil says, his face tipping towards Legolas with a strange smile. “Perhaps it shall be the time when you at last meet your Strider.”

 

Two days and one night passes before the band of Rangers arrives at the closed Gate of Bree, and they are admitted by a reluctant gate-keeper who looks in wide-eyed wonder at Legolas when he steps into the village proper.

“An Elf,” he exclaims, squinting into the failing light of dusk at the fair face of Legolas, “an Elf among the rugged tramps of Rangers!”

Legolas frowns, not looking to Thorongil for approval before stepping forward, his shoulders back, already fierce eyes brightening with anger as he looks upon the gate-keeper.

“Tramps, indeed! Such words the people of this land use for those who protect them thanklessly! Such words from an ignorant man who knows naught of the evil so near to his borders that it is a wonder he sleeps at night! Tramps, you say. You should bow and kiss the tired feet of these tramps, and throw flowers before them as they walk into your village. There is no honor to be found in Bree, if the one found at the gate speaks with such vulgarity to the faces of a noble people.”

“F-Forgive me,” the gate-keeper stammers, wringing his hat in his hands, his face ducked low. “Welcome to Bree. Enter with our gratitude, fair travellers.” 

The Rangers exchange surprised, pleased looks amongst themselves, and Thorongil does not mask his smile as he rests a hand on the arm of Legolas, giving it a gentle squeeze while the group makes its way through the muddy streets of Bree.

“You needn’t have spoken so,” the man says softly against the elf’s ear, “but please accept my humble thanks for such words from one of the fair race. ‘Tis a rare thing when any but ill words are spoken about my people.”

“It should not be so,” Legolas replies, still bristling from his confrontation with the gate-keeper. He looks back over his shoulder to meet the man’s eyes in the dark, glaring with all of his might at him before continuing on. “And it will not be so, not so long as I am among you.”

“Then each day with you will truly be counted as a gift, my lord.” The ranger is so near that his mouth brushes the pointed ear of Legolas, and the brief contact sends a pleased tremor down the elf’s spine. 

As a group, they enter into a bustling tavern with a sign overhead that reads The Prancing Pony. The air is thick with smoke and sweat and hops, the whole place teeming with what seems to be mostly men, but there are halflings and dwarves among them. Legolas finds himself filled with sorrow at the sight of the dwarves, and he wishes he could break from the company long enough to offer his condolences at the death of their fallen kinsmen, but he knows it is not his place to do so.

They are seated at a sticky, weathered table, and food is brought to them, and ale, and the men tuck into both with great relish. Legolas eats most of what is on his plate and sips at his drink, pushing the rest of his food toward Thorongil who is across from him. 

“Stay near me tonight,” Thorongil says in a low voice, leaning forward in his seat to do so. “This is a strange land of Men, and I do not want you to go unattended in it.”

Legolas smiles, holding the man’s eyes as he takes another small sip of his bitter drink.

“Do you truly think any here are a threat to me, my dear Ranger? I am an Elf, and a warrior who has seen many battles. I doubt there is any man within a hundred leagues who could challenge me.”

Thorongil seems dangerously pleased at hearing this, and his smile is dark and secret as he takes a bite from the plate Legolas gave him.

“I think perhaps I could challenge you well enough in many ways, my lord,” Thorongil says at last, one of his eyes closing in a fast wink that flusters Legolas, makes him lower his gaze, some of his silken blonde hair slipping over his cloaked shoulders. 

“Strider!” 

Legolas lifts his head in surprise, keen eyes dancing here and there across the crowded room in search of the voice and for the man who belongs to the name the voice spoke. All at his table seem to freeze, no one moving or looking up as the red-cheeked man working behind the bar bustles up right to them, his eyes right on Thorongil.

“Strider,” he says again, leaning over all the others to get Thorongil’s attention. Legolas watches, amazed, as Thorongil lifts his grey eyes, his expression rueful but he looks over at the man from beneath his hood.

“Aye, Mr. Butterbur. I hope this is gravely urgent, what with you bellowing like a whole head of cattle all the way over. Speak now, if you must. It must be an important matter indeed!”

Mr. Butterbur’s red face brightens in color, and he pauses when he sees Legolas there among the Rangers. 

“My apologies, Mr. Strider. ‘Tis not a grave matter, but important because I have a message from Gandalf the Grey.”

“My men can take the message in my stead. Please take them somewhere more private and deliver the words to them.” The man Legolas believed to be Thorongil avoids all the eyes on him now, staring down instead at his ale while the other four Rangers rise from the table and follow the fat innkeeper from the main room. Legolas is left alone with him, and the elf sits back from the table, shame staining his cheeks with a rare flush of pale pink.

“You make a fool of me,” he says softly, gathering his cloak about him and making as if to stand.

“No!” Strider reaches for him, grasping the edge of the cloak of Legolas and holding fast to prevent Legolas from leaving. “Please. My intentions were not thus. And this is not the manner in which I wanted you to find out the truth. Let me speak plainly to you, and then you may make your judgement of me. I beg you, my lord.”

“This must happen somewhere quiet,” Legolas says after a long pause, still not meeting Strider’s eyes. “I will not hear your truth over shouts and drunken songs.”

“Follow me.” Strider leaves a few coins on the table and rises when Legolas does, approaching him and walking close with a hand on the smallest part of his back which sends a thrilling shiver all through Legolas. They make their slow way through the heft of the crowd, and Strider closes the door of a small dark room behind them, shutting out the rowdy noise of the tavern and leaving them in an almost blessed quiet but for the fire in the small fireplace within.

There is a narrow bed tucked into the corner, and Strider sits now upon it, motioning for Legolas to join him.

“This room is where I stay when I find myself in Bree,” Strider tells him softly, his eyes on the fire behind Legolas. “I need quiet at times to think, to ponder over certain things and arrive at decisions that affect my men.” 

“Do you wish that I leave you, then?” It’s a cruel question, a needless one, but Legolas is hurt, surprisingly so. Strider turns to him then, the pain on his face so great that Legolas regrets his words.

“My lord,” Strider sighs, lifting a hand as if to touch Legolas, but he seems to think better of it and returns it to his own lap. “Let me explain myself. I am indeed he whom they call Strider, both here and in the wilds beyond. But Thorongil I am called also, to the men of Gondor and Rohan, and so in that I did not speak falsely.”

“I came seeking Strider,” Legolas interrupts, but his words are softened by hurt. “I arrived at Weathertop looking for you, and you hid yourself from me. Why?”

“It is a hard thing to ask me to trust,” Strider murmurs, “even one so fair as you. It was a quick decision in a busy moment, and I felt compelled to stick to the story, though to what end, I did not know. I did not know what you wanted with me, and I still do not know, in truth. I wanted to see, in secret, and then perhaps reveal myself to you. I did not know you would turn out to be so trustworthy, and so easily fall into place at my side.”

“I am at ease at your side,” Legolas tells him, shifting on the bed to bring them closer together, searching his eyes in the reddened dark. “I was nearly at once, even when I did not know your true name.”

“Even now, my prince, you do not know my true name.” Strider reaches up with those roughened fingers Legolas had felt only in a sort of daydream those few nights before and brushes the long fall of pale hair from the shoulder of Legolas, letting them linger there on the curve beneath the cloak.

“Tell me,” Legolas whispers, going as still as stone under the touch, not wanting it to leave. “Tell me, and I will keep it a secret, if you wish. I will shout it from the top of Amon Sûl, if you want it known to the world. Just tell me. I beg you.”

Strider draws a great breath, one that seems to pull all the air from the room, that makes the fire dance behind the elf’s shoulder, the shadows of its flickering growing along the length of the wall and to the ceiling above. Legolas is very aware of the deep, living pulse of his heart, very aware of every breath he takes, more aware than anything else of the hot rush of Strider’s breath on his face from so very close.

“I am Aragorn,” he says in a clear but hushed voice right against the mouth of the elf, “son of Arathorn. I am the rightful heir to the thrones of both Gondor and the fallen kingdom of Arnor. I am Isildur’s heir.”

“The forgotten king,” Legolas breathes, scarcely aware that he is trembling now, that his heart feels as if it is at the back of his throat, “the crownless king. It is you.”

“Aye,” Aragorn whispers, his head moving the slightest bit so that their mouths are lined up like stars in a constellation, like an arrow to its target. “It is I. Now you know my secret, my truth. And will you stay by my side?”

“I will,” Legolas promises, breath leaving him in a sweet sigh as his eyes drift closed. “Though I am the son of the Elvenking, I know that this is where I am meant to be, and that you are the king that I am meant to serve, crown or no. I shall serve you in any way you allow me, and I will gladly protect you from any foe that dares to oppose you.”

“You pledge yourself to me,” Aragorn says in quiet wonder, the top of his lip touching the bottom one of Legolas. “My prince.”

“My king,” Legolas sighs, the words scarcely spoken before his mouth is taken in its first kiss.


End file.
